


The Night's Fool

by Helenadorf



Category: Castlevania (Video Game 1999), Vampire Killer | Castlevania: Bloodlines, 悪魔城ドラキュラ Castlevania | Castlevania: Lament of Innocence, 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series, 悪魔城伝説 | Castlevania lll: Dracula's Curse
Genre: Comedy, Death is increasingly frustrated, Dracula is an idiot, Gen, Headcanon-heavy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenadorf/pseuds/Helenadorf
Summary: Sometimes, you see the warning signs early on and don't see them for what they are until it's too late. For Death, the one hitch in Mathias' plan should have been that early warning sign, but it's not until he's neck-deep in Dracula's failings, staring at the legendary mouth-crotch that he understands it as such.





	The Night's Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks once again to my bestie Boo for beta-ing this for me!
> 
> This fic takes place over several games, so bear that in mind. The year and game title are put over each segment so that you know where you are in time when it happens.
> 
> That aside, there are several headcanons here; including the nature of Death's previous masters, Death's inactivity for Lisa's death, Hector and Isaac's activity during Castlevania III, Simon Belmont's parentage (because I refuse to believe that the Belmonts and the Danasties never connected their family trees), and why we meet CV1 Drac in his coffin where every other game has him sitting in his throne. All very much background details.
> 
> The Legacy of Darkness segment is going to seem like a bit of a repeat from my fic Petty, though from Death's own perspective and before he gets all passive-aggressive. Other than that, enjoy!

**1094 * Lament of Innocence**

               It was hard to impress Death. Certainly, Death had not seen passion justified by genuine cleverness in a very long time. To come into possession of the Crimson Stone in the first place was itself a feat. Holders of the Crimson Stone up to this point had been power-hungry and ambitious beyond their bounds. However, his newest master— Mathias Cronqvist— had kept his own sights on something rather different; that being defiance of God’s will.

               An abstract desire, to be clear. God’s will had always ever been in question, ever since the dawn of time— in every time and religion, the wishes of higher powers were contested, debated. Death himself had been treated as a deity in this way, in fact, but the difference was that he knew his own will very well: that being his master’s.

               Death, as an element of nature, had no will. It acted as determined, perhaps pre-determined, with no further thought or consideration to its behaviour. Death the personification was under the control of they who held the Crimson Stone, their eternal servant. This arrangement had suited him well for more years than he cared to properly count. After all, why complain about something that would always be temporary? Nobody understood the inevitability of endings and finality the way Death did.

               To this end, Mathias had taken to devising a means to accomplish two goals: for one thing, to eliminate the Ebony Stone and its holder. If he would become a vampire and participate in the race for the throne, then he could not allow competition. Walter Bernhard would be competition, indeed. Certainly, Death already knew well that Walter had long been searching for the Crimson Stone.

               Mathias had sent Death to infiltrate Walter’s forces and gain his trust. If Death did his part in Mathias’ plan correctly, Walter would manipulate the holy knight, Leon Belmont, to infiltrate the demon castle in which Walter lived. Using Sara Trantoul as bait, Leon would tear his way through the castle, only to fail to save his beloved. Rinaldo, the alchemist who lived within the property lines of Castlevania, would use Sara’s soul to create the weapon known as the Vampire Killer and Leon would use it to destroy Walter’s Ebony Stone.

               Then, with Walter weakened, no one would be able to stand against Mathias. Furthermore…

               “You believe Leon will join you?” Death asked.

               The plan had seemed solid to him thus far, but it seemed odd that Mathias seemed so confident that Leon would wish to become a vampire as well. True that in all fairness, his soul would never join his beloved’s, anyway—Sara’s soul, bound to the Vampire Killer, would remain that way until the weapon itself was destroyed or depowered in some way. It was also understandable that Mathias trusted Leon as a dear friend, as they were, and did not want to spend his impending immortal life alone.

               However, admitting aloud to someone that you were responsible for their lover’s cruel death didn’t exactly seem like the recipe for a lasting alliance. If anything, Death was fairly certain that Leon would reject Mathias outright. Was Leon not a holy man, albeit not necessarily in the church-serving sense of the word? And wouldn’t he need to be a rather steadfast person himself to endure the dangers of Castlevania the way Mathias was so certain he would?

               “Of course,” Mathias replied. “I know Leon very well. Devout though he may be, once he understands as I do God’s cruelty, he will understand my pain. He will be eager to come to my side—he never could ignore suffering.”

               Death tilted his head. “…May I speak freely, my Lord?”

               “Go ahead.”

               “Forgive me, I do not mean to question you. However, you say he will understand the cruelty of _God’s_ will—except, you intend to admit to him that everything that is to come to pass is _your_ will?”

               Mathias only stared at him. “And?”

               Death considered continuing; that perhaps if Mathias kept his own involvement silent, he could properly convince Leon to abandon his humanity. Then again…

               As Mathias claimed, he had been friends with Leon for a very long time, already. Death knew at a glance how much time a person had left, and he was very good at reading people—but he was not a mind-reader, he could not intimately understand a person’s feelings and thoughts by sight alone.

               He chose to trust in his master’s plan. After all, if he were not intelligent, he would not have gotten control of the Crimson Stone to begin with. Certainly, he had done well to account for the possible behaviours of everyone else involved with the plan—Walter, Sara, Rinaldo. He had no intention of disobeying his master’s word.

               “Nothing, my Lord.”

               Mathias smiled. He lifted his hand to caress the side of Death’s jaw— “Serve me well, Death. The rest is up to you.”

               In hindsight, this should have been his first warning sign.

 

* * *

 

**1476 * Dracula’s Curse**

               A little under four hundred years later, suddenly everything had fallen apart at once.

               If Death were the type to confess, God would hear that Death had done something just a _little bit_ out of line. Well, it wasn’t that he’d _done_ something, necessarily, but that he’d _not_ done something.

               He had been well aware from the start that his master’s second human wife, Lisa, was going to die. At the start of their relationship, Death had assumed that Mathias—now rechristened as Dracula Vlad Țepeș— would turn his wife before her time would come. After all, that was the smart thing to do, wasn’t it? If one were to take on a mortal lover, it was best to assure their extended survival by taking that mortality away.

               But Dracula had been fascinated by Lisa’s humanity, and the way she’d won him over with her boldness and her ferocity coupled with her warmth and compassion made him hesitant to consider anything which might take that away from her. He told Death that he wanted to give Lisa everything, to do for her what he’d never been able to do for Elisabetha. He’d said that Lisa felt very much _like_ his beloved Elisabetha. Death would admit that he, too, saw the similarities.

               But the years went on, and Lisa gave his master a child. A half-vampire, half-human dhampir. He did not attend the birth—for one thing, what kind of an omen was it for _Death_ to attend a mother giving life? And surely the child would be discomforted, anyway. And, well… Death didn’t _like_ children.

               They were young, brimming with vitality and joy and _by God were they annoying_. It was almost shamefully _beneath him_ to have such a strong opinion about something so small, so temporary. But they were incessant, and insignificant, and Death cut himself out of the young Adrian’s life as much as he could. He almost became another heavy, haunted shadow in the cryptic hallways which Dracula would warn his son to never enter.

               But that was not Death’s sin.

               Even after Adrian had become a man, Dracula had not made his wife a vampire. Death could see that her time was running out, and _quickly_. He could even guess at what Lisa’s eventual cause of death would be: given that she was a human doctor, taking advantage of Castlevania’s vast knowledge and scientific prowess far beyond that of the outside world, she would be caught and tried for witchcraft. And like every other woman tried for witchcraft, she would be found guilty and executed.

               As Dracula’s subordinate and his dearest friend, Death could have easily stopped it. He had cultivated a human persona to take on—Father Zead—and had become quite good at playing the kind-hearted priest. He could have argued her innocence; or snuck her out of the church’s clutches.

               Death’s sin was that he _didn’t_ do that.

               In fact, he hadn’t mentioned Lisa’s imminent death to his master _at all_. This was because, and oh, the true embarrassing confession—

               He was _bored as hell_.

               Well, no—that was a crass way of putting it. Death would have to take back that confession _immediately_ , because there was no circumstance under which he would _ever_ do anything that would not ultimately lead to the best for his master. Certainly, he would never be so selfish as to let his master mourn a woman Death had every reason and chance to save.

               But the fact was that Dracula had not done a damn thing of note in the past several centuries, not since taking Walter’s throne and fleeing Leon’s retribution. Dracula had maintained a steady and dull routine of _sleep, feed, sleep, feed_ every day of every damn year. Lisa was just about the only thing that had spurred Dracula to any other action since then, and yes, she had been a novelty that was worth having in the halls of Castlevania.

               However, if Dracula did eventually turn her to stave off her eventual demise, then the _both_ of them would settle into that routine. Death knew from past experience that the death of a loved one could spur his master into fantastic feats, so, he let her die.

               He’d fully contented himself with the justification that ultimately, Lisa’s death would be better for Dracula in the long run. Given reason to act, act he would. What those actions might be, or what might come from it, were something Death could eagerly anticipate.

               And _fine_ , Death had been _just a little bit bored_ doing nothing for centuries. He was a servant who longed for something to do for his master. So sue him.

                What had resulted of Lisa’s death was that Dracula had decided that what he would do with his vast wealth of power was genocide. He planned to slaughter all of humankind, wipe them off the face of the map. Without Lisa, after all, there was nothing worth salvaging of them—so he said. Up until now, everything had been going quite well.

               And then Adrian, now calling himself _Alucard_ , chose to turn against his father.

               He had run off to meet with Trevor Belmont—the first of Leon’s descendants which would come to take his master’s head—and the church witch Sypha Belnades, and the pirate Grant Danasty. Now, the four of them were returning to Castlevania with the intent of tearing it down, brick by brick, and ending the war on humanity.

               “Hector and Isaac have destroyed the clock tower,” Death had been informing his master, “Such that they cannot enter the castle from the west. I have also personally assured that the ghost ship which they attempted to cross on has sunk, as well. That leaves them only the eastern path, unless Alucard plans to bring his allies through the underground passageway.”

               He dragged his finger across the map. “I have secured several of your most powerful forces here and here, but I anticipate that they may be able to breach the castle. Let us not forget whose blood Belmont shares.”

               “Yes,” Dracula said, “I recognize that.”

               Death nodded. “If they do enter the castle, I plan to halt their progress myself. I am effective in combat with multiple targets; they will be instinctually trying to protect one another, which will leave themselves wide open. My sickles and magics will easily tear them apart while they stumble over one another. Does this seem sound to you, my lord?”

               “I have one request.”

               Death might have blinked if he had eyelids. “Yes, my lord?”

               “Leave Adrian alive.”

               He supposed he couldn’t be _surprised_ by that request. Alucard was, after all, his master’s son. But he was also his master’s _enemy_ , and a very powerful one at that; the witch and the pirate were only human and had already been defeated once, left alive through sheer fortune. Belmont, assuming he was much like Leon, was a problem, but not one Death couldn’t solve. He had spent the better part of the dull centuries mulling over his battle with Leon, reconsidering his strategies, poring over a change of tactics…

               But Alucard had all of his father’s power in his blood, imprinted upon his being. There was even a very good chance that he would _surpass_ Dracula, with the understanding that Dracula’s power was borne of the Crimson Stone. To have all of that sheer strength and magic by default, coupled with Lisa’s own holy lineage (complete with the artifacts of her family which Alucard now wielded), meant having an enemy far beyond Belmont or any other living thing. Other creatures of the night were still weak to holy magics, sunlight, the works. Alucard had no such limitations.

               Worse yet, if they left Alucard alive, that would give humanity an opportunity to try again in fighting back. If Belmont had siblings, or even children…

               “Pardon me, but that may not be conducive to your plans.” Death spoke carefully, choosing his words wisely and keeping his tone carefully respectful. “Your son makes for a deadly enemy. If we keep him alive—”

               “He is the last that I have of Lisa,” Dracula interrupted. “I will not have him _dead_.”

               Funny. Hadn’t Alucard mentioned that Lisa’s final words were pleading for the safety of the human population? Wasn’t Dracula _already_ defiling his wife’s memory by committing genocide?

               Death didn’t care, obviously, but he didn’t fail to catch his master’s hypocrisy. That, and, much like the sin of allowing his master’s unhappiness in the hopes of something to occupy their time, he also felt personally irked by the idea of letting Alucard live.

               “Very well, my lord,” Death ultimately agreed. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

* * *

 

**1691 * Castlevania**

               Simon Belmont had come to storm the castle. He had torn open the lock on the front gates and broken into the castle with no trouble whatsoever. Death had _told_ Lord Dracula that placing the castle’s foundation on solid ground without a moat was a bad idea, _and_ that this particular Belmont was as descended from the Danasty clan as he was a Belmont and so no meager lock would keep him out, but _nooo_ , the castle guard had a stronger ground presence than sky or sea, he would meet more resistance this way! Though, Danasty was also descended from a _pirate_ and as such would not be deterred by even the most strongly-guarded moat, to which Death would begrudgingly admit his master had a point…

               Which didn’t address the fact that their enemy was about three fifths of his way through their _oh-so guarded_ fortress and Lord Dracula was _still asleep_.

               Castlevania didn’t have a defined day/night period. By its very nature, the living demon castle changed everything within the property bounds where it was summoned from the ground it was placed on to the air it breathed to the very sky and stars. It lived beneath eternal night, with a full blood moon shining down upon it. And with no morning, there was no risk of the sun burning its master to ashes—therefore, keeping track of time was a purely academic endeavor, and Dracula slept when he wished.

               Once again, Death would not protest his master’s will unless it would doom him. He believed he had full rights to protest in this case, when their enemy was well past their doorstep and practically flashing his undergarments at the clock tower’s harpies.

               “Master,” Death urged as he knocked on the coffin’s lid.

               It did not move.

               “ _Master_ ,” Death persisted. Still nothing.

               He lifted his scythe and slammed its end into the coffin’s lid. The knocking was loud, and certainly the energy of the scythe would be felt even through the thick and polished wood. However, he still did not wake.

               “My Lord, Belmont is more than halfway through the castle.” Death kept his voice raised. “You will need to prepare in case I am unable to stop him. _Wake up_.”

               Nothing, still.

               Once again, Death would never be so _bold_ as to do anything to actively spite his master… unless, of course, it was for his own good. Was it him, or was finding that justification becoming easier and easier as the centuries went on? Was it possible for a vampire to grow senile? Surely it wouldn’t be within the first six centuries, would it? Death was fairly certain it took something closer to millennia for a so-called _immortal_ to grow mad. Then again, his master was always the type to defy expectation.

               He steeled himself, this was going to be very ill-mannered of him—bordering on insubordination, perhaps. But again, this was for Dracula’s own good, and Death’s own irritation was only a minor note in his behaviour. His own concerns were nothing compared to the importance of his master’s continued well-being…

               “ _Wake up_ , you ungrateful, senseless fool,” Death hissed. “Is this what your reign has come to? Resting away when your enemy is near? Do you _wish_ to die? I can _see_ how much time you’ve left, you idiot! And upon this resurrection, you have less than two hours. I have _every_ reason to believe that it will be because you have such a lack of foresight—such a deep-seated _incompetence_ —that you will be asleep _still_ when Belmont gets here.”

               Okay, maybe it felt more than a _little_ cathartic. Death hadn’t realized how much irritation he’d suppressed over the past 600 or so years.

               “Very well, then. Take for granted the fact that I will resurrect you again and again, though only the Lord knows why I still bother. You are perhaps more useful to your own cause dead than you are alive! Shall I leave you here, then? I will take silence as a yes.”

               Oh, if Dracula were awake to hear that, it would surely have gotten under his skin. Had he lips, Death would have teased a smile.

               Sure enough, Dracula did not respond.

               “Very well, then,” Death said. “I will leave you dead when Belmont slays you. If it is your wish…”

               He began to leave the room, and finally, _finally_ , he heard a rattle from the coffin. For a moment, there was a sense of victory—he’d _finally_ gotten a response out of his master, and he would be awake to fight Belmont properly!

               Then a sense of realization hit Death like a crossbow bolt. He’d just insulted and antagonized his master effectively _to his face_. He had stepped right up to the line more than a few times, he would admit; but this would be the first time he was actively wronging his master.

               Of course, logically, there was nothing Dracula could do to punish Death without sabotaging himself. Death organized virtually everything in Dracula’s name: his army, the castle itself, the cults that worshipped him, he even personally managed Dracula’s day-to-day in the quieter hours, assuming Dracula was alive for more than a few of them. Death could not feel physical pain, not without the use of holy magics or weapons, which Dracula could not wield. The most Dracula could do was berate him.

               But still.

               The coffin creaked open, and Death stopped and turned to it. His master’s head rose over the lid’s edge, disheveled. Dracula turned to Death, regarding him with dulled red eyes.

               “Were you saying something, Death?” he asked groggily.

               _Oh, for the love of—_

               Death resisted the urge to smack his face into his palm. All that for _nothing_? Really? Well, so be it. At least his master was awake now.

               “No,” he replied, suppressing the urge to sigh. “But Belmont is growing near. I am going to meet him in battle shortly, and I only meant for you to be prepared in case he were to get past me as well.”

               A yawn escaped his master. “Very well,” he replied. “Give me another hour…”

               He closed the coffin lid again. Death stared, baffled.

               _Did he seriously just go back to sleep?_

               Well, now wasn’t the time to be exasperated, as much as Death felt like screaming. He had a job of his own to do, and certainly, if Dracula _insisted_ on getting more rest, then the least Death could do as his servant was delay Belmont for as long as possible. Maybe if he did his job well enough, Dracula would have time to wake again.

               As always, it felt like he had to compose himself and extend that much more effort, in the hopes of making up for his master’s shortcomings. At least his master was fairly reasonable beyond that.

 

* * *

 

**1844 * Legacy of Darkness**

“My lord…”

Death had his head in one hand, rubbing at his temple as though there were any muscles there to massage. The other hand held his scythe loosely, just barely keeping it from clattering to the castle floor. Such exhaustion was woven deep into his booming, echoing voice, yet Dracula seemed not to notice in the slightest. In fact, he seemed to be _agitated_. “If you would please… run that by me… _again_.”

Dracula sighed in frustration. “My plan is to corrupt the werebeast, Ortega.”

“Yes.”

“And I will turn him against the greater werewolf, Cornell, by having him slaughter the village and kidnap the girl.”

“Alright…”

“And once Cornell comes here to me, I will allow him to kill me— so I can take his power and reincarnate!”

“And _that_ is where you keep losing me.”

Dracula threw up his hands and let out a snarl of annoyance. “What’s so difficult about this?! No one will suspect their end at the hands of a mortal infant! It will be perfect! They will not be ready for another battle with me so soon!”

“Have you considered that the current Belmont will be of age by the time your… _infant self_ is grown enough to make his attempt?” Death asked. “…More importantly, have you forgotten that time when you turned into your gaseous form to make Christopher Belmont believe you dead? It worked brilliantly for _sixteen_ years— only until he kicked down the door, freed his son and used your skull as a kickball.”

His master shot him a look. “What do you know? You weren’t even there.”

Death gave him the most exasperated stare an expressionless skeleton could offer. “ _At your command_ , because for some reason you were convinced you didn’t _need me_ in Castlevania at the time.”

“Yes, well.” Dracula tapped his finger impatiently against his arm. “Clearly you didn’t do your job well as my advisor.”

“Which is _exactly_ why I’m telling you now that this new plan of yours is foolish,” Death snapped. “It doesn’t matter if the attempt is sooner or later, the world will not be caught any more or less _off guard_. Which is why you should make a point to make your _current_ attempt with all the power you can muster. Use these werebeasts to power the fall of Wallachia, and—”

“Besides, that second battle with Christopher only failed because I had remained in the same form! Do you suspect that the Belmonts would be willing to murder a _child_?”

               The reaper stared at him. There was no irony in his master’s demeanor, nor his tone. No reprieve from the absolute idiocy Death was being tortured with.

               Was this Hell?

               _Am I in Hell?_

               Had he died so many times that the Devil found it worth his time to make a plaything out of his soul after some terrible battle, and had brought him to a private pit where he would slowly watch his beloved master lose his mind and develop stupid scheme after stupid scheme? It was that battle with Juste Belmont, wasn’t it? It all went downhill from that half-formed spectre of Castlevania onwards. He was dead at the hands of Juste and he was being punished now for accepting servitude to this moron. Mathias Cronqvist had been correct: God truly had no concept of mercy.

               “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying,” Death remarked in utter disbelief.

               “I know what I’m doing,” Dracula said. “Did I ask for your advice—”

               “ _YES_!” The word came out far more loudly than Death intended, and it startled his master out of his arrogant stance. “ _Twelve seconds ago_ , you told me that I should be doing my job as your advisor and steering you away from witlessness such as this!”

               Such an outburst was unbecoming of the ever-loyal reaper. However, his limits had been tested—defied, even. No, more like _shattered like glass under the force of gratuitous amounts of gunpowder_. For a moment, Death was angry with himself for being so abrasive towards his master.

               _He asked for this,_ Death counselled himself calmly. _He sought your advice and you are giving it. He is not listening to you, and so you are making your point more aggressively for his own good. You have not overstepped your boundaries._

               Dracula paused. The look on his face was rather undignified, frozen in surprise. However, he seemed to finally collect himself.

               “Well,” he managed, “Do bear in mind that while you are _advising_ me, you are still my servant, and married to my every word.”

               _God dammit._

               “I want a divorce,” Death deadpanned.

 

* * *

 

**1914 * Bloodlines**

 Death found himself wordless, gazing upon his master’s altered demonic form.

               It wasn’t as if he’d never seen his master transform. Changes to such a shape were usually made with Death being asked for his opinion, in fact, and usually— _usually_ —they were reasonable alterations. Larger, or more bat-like, or perhaps with sharper horns and fangs. Changes to speed, power, deciding which traits would be more valuable to match with the enemy to come. It was the one thing, Death had thought, Dracula wouldn’t, or at least _couldn’t_ , screw up.

               _I have far too much faith in him, it seems._

               From the waist up, the form was as it typically was. Teeth and claws and a ferocity which would send even the most fearsome dragons hiding in burrows, from which the gorgons would shield their gaze and God Himself wept in the horror of what man could become.

               In the place of his crotch was a giant mouth.

               It was big-lipped, comedically so. Sharp teeth curled out of the terrible, misplaced maw. There seemed to be no tongue, and the gullet appeared bottomless past the point of physical reason. From the bottom, Dracula’s thin legs, incongruous with his much more muscular upper body, jutted out to the side awkwardly, giving him a crab-legged stance.

               “What do you think?” his master had said, as though under the impression that it _wasn’t_ an utterly ridiculous sight to behold.

               Much to both Dracula’s surprise and his own, Death finally broke what must have been a full minute’s worth of silence with a laugh.

               Death hadn’t felt it coming, the way a laugh would normally bubble beneath the surface before rising. It had been sudden—a shock through his body, coming out in torrents seemingly endlessly. He heard his scythe fall to the floor as he doubled over, both arms holding his sides as though they were about to burst. He’d also forgotten that he and Dracula were not alone in the room, and Carmilla, at his same side of it, burst out laughing as well.

               Through his own, he could hear that she was in utter _hysterics_ —shrieking with delight, long gasps of air followed by even more cackling. She had her head thrown back, one hand placed over her stomach, the other palm smacked onto her face. She sounded like she was genuinely enjoying herself.

               Death was not.

               Death’s laughter was not just mirthless, but actively pained. It was a strangely desperate sound from him, and as it went on it sounded less like laughter and more like broken, hopeless sobbing—of the kind he had heard many times from victims throughout the ages. It sounded like the prisoners who, faced with their imminent finality, found themselves letting out whatever sound their brain could offer. Joyless cheer in the face of a terrible fate.

               That comparison sounded about right. Death was bound to Dracula, and as he’d once said, _married to his word_. Dracula would arise again and again, because Death was so damn _loyal_ , and he would continue to follow his commands. Where had his own philosophy of _inevitability_ and _endings_ gone? Why did it seem like, in this moment, that what he was enduring was going to be eternal?

               Dracula had no words, either. He, understandably, hadn’t expected a response like that. Carmilla, on the other hand, staggered her way to Death. She leaned her head against his shoulder, giggling and snorting, trying to pat his other shoulder in some meager attempt at comfort. Normally, it would be an insult. At the moment, Death appreciated that she was trying. At least _someone_ still understood the concept of effort.

               “Oh God,” she said through snickers, “ _Oh my God_.”

               “We have no God, remember?” Dracula hissed. His arms were crossed. That damn mouth-crotch was still on full display, and every time Death tried to raise his head to calm himself, he would have to look at it again and another fit of laughter would come.

               “Yes we do. We have him,” Carmilla replied, pointing a finger at Death. “And oh my God, Death, you poor bastard. You poor, poor bastard!”

               That last word devolved into more laughter. Death was finally starting to get a grip on himself, enough that he no longer sounded distressed. He still couldn’t work out what had come over him—had his master’s form really been so undignified that he would react this way, like an immature child? Or was it the centuries of pent-up aggravation which compiled into one extended outbreak? Either way, Death had to hold his jaw steady when he lifted his gaze again and it met _that stupid_ _mouth-crotch_.

               Dracula looked annoyed, now. It was a shame, because there was nothing unintimidating about his form from the waist up. Formidable, towering, seething with anger. If it hadn’t been for the _mouth-crotch_ , and the spindly little crab legs that came out of it, Death would have offered the same unhesitant approval that he had always offered before.

               Carmilla was slowly, but surely, steadying herself as well. She still had her hands on Death, and while he didn’t think to complain, she did eventually realize and pull them back to herself. She cleared her throat and swallowed a few more giggles, looking pointedly up at Dracula’s face.

               “Are the both of you done?” Dracula asked, steely calm.

               “Yes.” Carmilla’s face squeezed tight as she tried not to lie.

               “Then I suggest Carmilla go back to her _own_ battle front. Death—I am disappointed with you. I would like an explanation for your behaviour before I send you off to prepare for the enemy’s arrival.”

               Normally, to earn his master’s genuine ire would be of concern. Even when they argued, something always felt so very _wrong_ to cause his master upset; and it was a feeling that Death had always handled with discretion. (Carmilla always judged him for capitulating to the most minor of massacres in apology, but Death was eager to forgive for a reason.) That said, at this very moment, Death was shocked with himself that he quite honestly _didn’t care_.

               He should have known long ago that this servitude would be an utter disaster. Apparently, it finally _broke him_.


End file.
